


After Agra

by Cartopathy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cartopathy/pseuds/Cartopathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion to The Dancing Magpies.</p>
<p>Mycroft returns home from a Kyrgyz airfield. Lestrade is waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Agra

Greg blinks again into darkness, remembering yesterday's series of phone calls and the warrant for the house in Croydon and Mary going away. And Mycroft had vanished at some point, with a kiss to the cheek and a “sorry, love, one of _those_ days.”

It isn't until now, though, with the rising of the sun that Greg hears Mycroft's footsteps climbing the stairs. Greg closes his eyes, feeling his body respond to the sound, to the hope, to the memory of that man's body. He keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep.

The door opens, barely rustling against the carpet. Greg hears the sigh and the voice, “I can always tell when you're awake. You've yet to fool me.”

Greg cannot help the smile pressing across his face. “When you come home again, that's my favourite bit.”

Mycroft crosses the room to the far side of the bed, across from Greg. “Mine is what comes next.”

Greg lies still, waiting.

“I'm simply knackered, love. Won't you undress me?”

Greg slips from under the brocade and walks around the bed. Mycroft is still while Greg unbuttons the suit jacket and the waistcoat and tugs the shirt from the trouser waistband. Then to the closet where the hangers await; the left side with the white hangers for dry cleaning.

He pulls the jacket from shoulders, stealing a kiss while his hands are behind that back. He hangs the jacket. He pulls the waistcoat, running his hands gratuitously down those arms. They clasp hands a moment; Greg fiddles with the ring no one ever understands. He hangs the waistcoat.

His fingers are nimble with the shirt buttons. When he pulls them down the arms, he presses his own bare stomach to the soft jersey knit between them. This proximity reveals Mycroft's readiness, and they stand together, feeling each other, their cheeks pressed together and eyes closed and they are breathing heavy. He hangs the shirt.

Now the trousers. Greg's fingers unassisted at the belt, the fly. When they are loosed Mycroft is kind enough to pull off his undershirt, and despite knowing what awaits beneath the trousers, Greg is taken aback by the flesh he knows so well and studies it for a moment. Then he continues with the trousers, and when they are free from Mycroft he holds them by the hems and folds them along their creases and hangs them.

Greg places the pieces together on the dirty side of the closet. When he returns Mycroft has removed the socks and pants and is tapping the small bottle from the nightstand against his hand. Greg removes his own pants, tossing them to his side of the bed and keeping his eyes on Mycroft's face that smiles such deviant pleasure at the small piece of clothing out of place.

Greg clasps the small bottle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“You always get so desperate when I go away.”

“True,” Greg says. “But you always get so tired when you go away.”

Mycroft's hand against Greg's cheek. “I want to give you what you like. You're always so good to me”

Greg moves his free hand to Mycroft's bare thigh. “Whatever you did out there today, you probably saved the world again.” His fingers have reached the creases where thighs meet, and his hand clasps and Mycroft gasps and moans. “Just sit back, and relax.”

Greg takes Mycroft into his mouth as far as he can, and he moves in familiar patters, hearing noises that never grow old, and he is desperate for his own hand, the cold fingers against his warm flesh. He tries to slow his mouth and tongue as Mycroft's approval crescendoes.

And Mycroft is always so polite. “It's” he breathes “I'm” and Greg stops his hand to focus on drinking and swallowing. Mycroft is leaned back on his elbows, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling.

Greg grabs Mycroft's discarded sock and moves away from the bed a few feet so Mycroft can watch as he finishes himself.

And they are both tired now, and incandescent, and Greg climbs among the sheets and smells the must of sweat and old cologne and presses his lips to that jaw just beneath the ear and furrows his legs between the cold of sateen sheets and the warm of Mycroft's body. And their still heavy breaths rock each other to sleep like a boat at sea.

 


End file.
